


No One Worse Than You

by LMT



Series: Hound & Arya fic [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hound can be a really difficult partner.  So can Arya.</p><p>(Meant to follow my other Hound & Arya fics, but can also be read alone).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This takes place some years after my other Hound/Arya fics.  They're at home.  I’m not specifying where home is or what their relative positions are, because that would be spoilers in case I ever decide to write the story of how they ended up there.**

**It’s not fluffy, though. There’s discussion of some ugly skeletons in the Hound’s closet.**

* * *

_Boy,_ Arya thought when she looked him over. Anyone younger than she was was still a _boy_ to her, even though this one was probably approaching twenty. He had his height already – impressive height, and it took a lot of height to impress Arya given who she spent her days with – but he didn’t yet have all his muscle. In another few years his chest and shoulders would bulk up, and then he’d be impressively strong, too. His name said he was a bastard from the Riverlands. She’d never seen him before.

She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said. “I know firsthand that caring for a direwolf cub isn't easy. I really appreciate the trouble you must have taken to bring her all the way here to me.”

Sandor spoke up next. This surprised her; he usually sat through guests in sullen silence. “The gift of a puppy is the way into the lady’s heart – not mine,” he growled. “Why’d you ask to see the both of us at once?”

The boy drew himself up. “My house has been burned down and I’ve been chased from my village. I want you to take me in.”

Sandor laughed. “Half of fucking Westeros has had its house burned down, boy. Do we look like an orphanage to you?”

The boy wasn’t cowed – in fact, he firmed up his stance even more, and something about his scowl… “It’s _your_ fault my house was burned.”

“The fuck it is. I don’t set fires.”

“It’s still your fault. My house was burned because _you_ have enemies. An awful lot of people hate you. And somehow, despite my best efforts to keep it quiet, some of these people found out that I’m your nephew.”

A long silence. “My nephew,” Sandor said at last. Low and raspy. “Gregor's get.”

“Yes, my lord.” The boy hazarded a smile. “My lord uncle.”

Sandor sat still a moment – too still – and then before Arya could speak up, rose from his chair and started walking around the big table to the front. Scooping up his sword as he went.

“No – _Sandor_!” Arya jumped up too, dove under the table and scrambled out the other side. Not quick enough; she was behind him and he was just a few steps away from the stupid boy, who just stood staring wide-eyed like he didn’t believe he was about to get beheaded.

Needle was already in her hand as she charged him, and when he raised his arm to swing she went in under his armpit – jabbed the point in and ripped open a gash beside his ribs. He roared and turned. She dove past him, somersaulting on the hard floor… and came up right between Sandor Clegane and his prey. _Not a good place to be._

“Go,” she barked over her shoulder. “Run.” She heard the footsteps; the boy was obeying.

She stood breathing hard, still holding her blade, but balanced and ready to dive aside. How enraged _was_ he? She wasn't dressed or armed to withstand him if he attacked; _why_ didn’t she ever carry her big fucking sword with her?

His chest was heaving too. But after a moment he threw his sword to the ground and spread his hands. “No.”

She put Needle away and breathed slow and deep until she'd calmed down. He was doing the same thing, standing far away from her, staring out the window. She approached him slowly. “Sandor? You're cut – let me see.”

He shook his head.

“Come on – don't be-”

“I'll go to the fucking maester,” he said over her – short and sharp.

She swallowed. He _never_ volunteered to see the maester. He must be deeply upset with her. “I'm sorry.”

He was still facing away. “Never mind that,” he said more quietly. “Go see to the boy. Have him locked up.” He sighed, then added: “If you let him go instead, I'll hunt him down and it won't be pretty. Is that clear?”

He wouldn't appreciate any further attempts to make nice. “Yes,” she said, just as quiet, and went out.

The boy was in the hall, unconscious. “He ran,” one of the guards explained. “We heard you and Sandor shouting, and we thought...”

“Sandor was shouting because I stabbed him,” she said shortly. “The boy didn't do anything wrong.” The guards looked a little concerned by that. “Listen: he's to be locked up. _Somewhere where Sandor can't get to him._ Until we can agree on what to do he's not to be harmed – by _anyone._ Is that clear?”

They both _yes milady_ 'd her and dragged the boy away.

* * *

He went to the maester alone and took his stitches sober – penance, really. A sort of half-baked hope that the gods would be a little kinder with him when it came time to face Arya again.

The gods didn't seem to be listening, though: she came by almost as soon as he was back in his room. It hadn't taken her long at all to think of the question.

“Have there been others?” she said.

“Other whats?” he said, without any hope that he was misunderstanding.

“Other bastards of Gregor's. Or yours, I guess.”

He'd tried to prepare himself but still it wasn't pleasant to talk about. And she was not going to be happy when he did. She knew already that he’d kill children when he needed to, but... “Gregor had two others that I found.”

“Did you kill them?” Her voice was low and measured – rehearsed. There was no point asking her _Are you sure you want to know_ ; clearly, she was sure.

“The first was a girl. I paid the mother, had her swear that at the first sign there was something wrong with the babe she'd drown it. But it was a girl, so...” he shook his head. “I let it live.”

(Now, knowing Arya, he knew that girls were nothing to trifle with and he shouldn't have taken chances. But Arya would not appreciate that, so he kept his mouth shut.)

“What about the second one?”

“Second one was a boy.”

She didn't make him say any more than that, but then, she of all people would be able to fill in the details for herself. He badly wanted a drink. The wine on the table was calling to him. He didn't go to it.

“And what about _you_?” she said. “Have you had any children of your own?”

He shook his head. “I've always just bedded whores. They know to be careful.”

“What about-...” Arya stopped, and went for the wine herself. Poured it, took a long sip...

And held the rest of the glass out to him. “It wasn't _always_ just whores,” she went on. “You told me once that you raped a couple of girls when you were younger. What happened with _them_?”

He poured the whole glass down his throat before trying to answer. “They didn't have any children.”

“Why? Did you kill them?” Then she put her hand on his arm. “No – never mind. It's not my business.”

He knew it was showing on his face; there was no point hiding from it. Anyway she had a right: she was laying with him, it was only fair that she know what happened to the ones who came before. “Aye, I killed them.”

She didn't say anything.

“Clean, if that matters,” he added. “Gregor wanted to... do things, but...” he shook his head.

“Is that why?” she asked. “Is that why you killed them – so that he couldn't?”

She wanted to think he'd only been _saving_ them, sparing them something worse. He wished he could let her, but he’d never been a very good liar. “No.” She was waiting. “Gregor said _maybe we've put sons in them._ He said _Do you think they'll look more like me, or like you?_ I thought about that for a second, and then…” He shrugged. “Got my sword.”

He could still remember little bits about the girls, if he tried. The one he'd taken first, black hair, had had his bloody handprint spanning both cheeks. The other had come to him with her jaw already broken; apparently she'd screamed too loud for Gregor. They'd been no older than Arya was the first time he took her to bed. He remembered wondering whether they'd even had their blood yet... and Gregor had laughed about that. _We'll give them blood enough, brother_.

Arya was still looking at him. He turned away from her so that she couldn’t, but she hugged him from behind. “I love you,” she said quietly, and that wasn't good: she didn't say it often, and when she did it was usually to brace him up for something awful. “But you're an idiot. That's not a good reason to kill someone.”

He sincerely doubted there was _any_ reason good enough for everything they’d done that day. But he didn't tell her any more. He just nodded and closed his hand over her arm, pathetically grateful for the contact.

“We are not going to slaughter your nephew for no reason. Let’s get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning.”

* * *

**The End.**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:   This one takes place a while earlier than the prior chapter.  This is Arya’s wedding day.   In order not to give stuff away in case I decide to write more, some things are ambiguous.  Like, the identity of the groom.  :o)**

* * *

She usually liked the Hound better in armor, because out of it his clothes bagged off him, stained and ill-fitting, disguising his strength and his competence and basically everything good about him.  Out of his armor he usually looked like a drunk peasant.

Today was different, though.  This outfit had been sewn for him with care, made to hug his body so that you could see, for a change, that he was not in fact just a big shapeless lump.

(A big shapeless _mountain_ of temper and metal.  She had to wonder what Gregor would have looked like in regular clothes.  Or out of them.  She was glad she didn't know.)

She took in his broad shoulders and the tapering at his waist.  The muscles of his legs.  He looked... imposing, and more.  _Maybe we can sneak away from the feast,_ she thought, _and fuck in our new clothes._ The thought made her chuckle; it was _exactly_ the sort of thing you weren’t supposed to do.

He spun around, and saw her looking.  “You,” he growled.  “What do you want?”

“Nothing.  Just looking.” 

“Why?”  He sounded suspicious.

_Because it's nice to see you not look like a drunk peasant for a change._ No – why pick a fight?  She just gave him a quick smile and a quirk of eyebrows.  “Because you look great.”

* * *

Every single day of his life people told him, by word and glance and deed, that his face was a nightmare.  He'd thought that he was completely used to it by now, that it could never bother him again.  And yet…

Well, the wolf girl was special.  He'd known that for a while.

He forced himself to take a breath though; even _he_ wouldn't shout at a bride on her wedding day.  She probably hadn't meant to do anything more than tease rough anyway.  “You're going to look just as silly in your bloody _dress_ ,” he snarled, “So I'd shut my damn mouth if I were you.”

She blinked.  Cocked her head.  “Can't you hear?” she said at last.  “I wasn't saying you look bad.  I was saying it's _good_.”   She spoke slow and careful, like trying to explain to a halfwit.  “You look _nice_.”

He stared.  No idea even what to say.  He literally couldn't remember the last time he'd had his fucking appearance complimented.

Arya laughed at him.  “You'd better get used to it,” she said.  “You’re not going to be able to just lurk in corners today; people are going to notice you.  And some girls are going to like it.”

When he still didn’t have an answer she sighed in annoyance and came close.

“You're tall,” she explained.  She reached up and patted his chest.  “Strong up here...”  Dragged her hand down his side to his belt, and tugged on it.  “And no belly.  Girls like that – you have a good shape.”

He swallowed.  “I-... I don't...”

She rolled her eyes.  “Here – let me fix your hair.”

He knelt down for her and closed his eyes while she fussed, running through it with her fingers.  “I don't know how you even _see_ , with it all flopping in your face like this,” she said, for the hundredth time.

When she fixed his part, her nails against his scalp made him shiver.  “Enough,” he growled, but made no move to stop her.

“After all this trouble to look nice,” she said.  “We're not going to fuck it up because you don't have the patience to get combed for ten seconds.  Hold still.”

The comb was even worse (better?), and he made irritated hissing noises the entire time she used it.  “Happy?” he said when she was done.

“Almost.”  She was frowning, examining his face closely.

He managed – barely – not to pull away.  “The fuck are you looking at?”

“You missed a spot.  Shaving.”  She touched his jaw lightly.  “Can I fix it?”

He rose up laughing.  “The day I let you at my throat with a razor, wolf girl...”

She shoved him.  “Fine.  I'll go get myself ready instead.”  Then she grew serious.  “The ceremony is only three hours away.  _Do not get drunk_ in the meantime.  Promise?”

He snorted.  “You made me promise to show up at the damn wedding.  I did _not_ promise to do it sober.”

“Well you can get a _little_ drunk.  But not, you know...”

“All right: promise.”

“Thanks.  I'll see you later.”  She started to leave... but paused in the doorway.  “Can I ask a favor?”

Gods preserve him.  She was going to ask him to, to _dance_ with her or something.  Couldn't very well refuse her, though, could he.  “Aye.”

“If I do look silly in my dress,” she said, without facing him, “Be nice to me anyway.”

Her voice was higher and tighter than it ought to be, and he felt like absolute shit.  “Girl, you're going to look fine-,” he tried to tell her, but the door was already closing behind her.

He sighed.  Scowled at himself in the mirror.  Great indeed.

* * *

**The End.**

**Let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Arya can get jealous too. Takes place some time after the end of Kill You With His Little Finger (but could definitely be read alone).**

**A/N: Warnings for D/s & knife & blood. With a dash of sex at the very end.**

* * *

The wolf girl cornered him one afternoon and said: “Hey. Are you busy? I want to do something to you.”

Something?

“You know... like I said I would. Revenge, for marking me all up that time.”

Ah – _that_ time. He’d known he would someday come to regret pissing on that particular tree so spectacularly. He’d been at the very end of his rope though, with jealousy and worse, so that when she called him out he really lost his head.

“I've been thinking about how,” she went on, “And now I have a good idea. Can I do it? It'll hurt though, and you're definitely going to bleed.”

She was perky and hopeful, like when she asked him for _normal_ favors, so he imagined it wouldn't be too bad. Probably some sort of tattoo or something. “Want to make me uglier than I am already, is that it?” he said at last.

“Of course not – I'm the one has to look at you.”

He huffed at her and shrugged yes. Why the fuck not.

She didn’t waste any time. “All right, then let’s do it now. Daytime is better; I need to be able to see for this and I don’t want to surround you with lit torches.”

He clamped down on a surge of temper – it was a good point and she was matter-of-fact about it, nothing for him to fairly get angry for. “Fine.”

“Great.” Her smile was sunny. “Come on. Master bedroom.”

He followed her without a word. Once they were in there, she barred the door. “Now take off your clothes,” she ordered. “Everything.”

Hm.   A little wary - but a lot curious - he stripped, and sat down on the footstool she brought him.

It didn’t surprise him when she took out a knife. It was clean and freshly sharpened at least – good girl. “Going to carve your name or something?” he asked coolly.

“Something like that, I guess.” She knelt down, set his hand in his lap, and drew her finger along a faded old scar on his forearm. “What's this – where did you get this from?”

He sighed. She couldn’t really want to hear about this. “That was... I was with Gregor. That's from-”

“Not anymore.” She set the tip of her knife beside the tip of the scar, pressed til blood welled, and cut down the whole length. He clenched his fist against the hot rush of pain but otherwise held still. She looked up at him afterwards. “Now it's from me,” she said, and waited as if to see if he'd argue. He didn't say anything.

Blood was trickling down to his wrist, but she ignored it. Instead, she touched the next scar, up by his elbow. “How about this one?”

He swallowed. _Fuck._ She wasn't going to just remake a scar or two to prove a point - she meant to actually go over each and every one he had. _Which is how many?_ He didn't often stare at himself naked, so when he looked down to assess how much misery he was in for it was an unpleasant surprise.   There were a _lot_ of marks littering his body - a lot of history on display, and some of the stories were not going to please the girl at all. _Better get comfortable._

She'd cut through two other scars on his sword arm while he was thinking, and afterwards moved up to his shoulder and brushed the hair off his neck.

“This one I remember,” she said, touching him back there. “This was for me.” She kissed it instead of cutting, which buzzed bizarrely and made him shudder. He was already sweating with the pain of the knife and the effort of holding still for it, and before long he would start freezing. She’d better not urge him over to the fire to warm up.

Her fingers traced a long curved line on his back that he couldn't believe was still visible. “That was Joffrey,” he said, before she could ask. “Do it.”

He braced up, but the pain was light this time – stinging more than anything else. Compared to the hideous bone-deep burn of the original injury it was nothing. “What happened?” she said quietly. He felt her step back for a better view. “Doesn't look like a blade. A whip?”

He felt a drop of blood slide down and _that_ sensation he remembered. “Aye. Joff was having someone lashed, and the poor shit couldn't stop making noise, so he had me show how it's done. You know.” He shrugged. “ _Even my dog... more of a man..._ that sort of thing.”

“Joffrey was awful.” Her hands glided down his spine and stroked outwards, searching for more. “And as much a freak as Ramsay Snow.”

 _More freakish than a girl who gives cuts for favors, instead of ribbons?_ But he bit his tongue; that wasn't fair. The girl was vengeful and pitiless but she didn't actually relish cruelty.

“Look down on the right,” he volunteered, resigned. If he was going to cooperate, he might as well cooperate all the way.

“This here?”

“Mm-hm. That’s from an arrow I took for the Lannisters.”

“Not anymore.”

He hissed as she sliced in. Not seeing made it worse; he was glad when she moved around his side and to his front again.

She skipped on her own over wounds whose origin didn't offend her – everything he'd got fighting by her side, or in tavern brawls, or from training accidents in Dorne. (It wasn't the custom there to train in armor, so moments of laziness or drunkenness tended to cost him.). A few _he_ insisted that she skip over – like, scars from the Blackwater battle. He'd known he was finished with the Lannisters by then; he was fighting on mostly to keep Stannis and his bloody fire god away from the city (and away from Sansa). The wolf girl didn't make him explain all that, for which he was grateful, but she seemed a little annoyed – the next cut she made was decidedly deeper than the ones before.

“You planning to bleed me to death, girl?” he grumbled. “I’m getting dizzy.”

If he’d meant it as a plea for mercy – and he wasn’t entirely sure he had not – Arya ignored it. “I've seen you lose a lot more blood than this,” she dismissed. “You're all right.”

Then she touched the puckered burn scars on his left arm. “You got this fighting Beric Dondarrion.”

“Aye.  Fucking shield caught fire.”  He braced up – she was probably going to do something _awful_ there; that was a murder trial for her beloved butcher’s boy.

She studied the scars. “I wanted you to die that day,” she said at last, quietly.

He chuckled. “You did more than _want_ – you grabbed a knife and went for it.”

She looked up, startled. “You remember that? I thought you were too…”

“Scared? Like a little girl?” he sneered. She’d mocked him about it later, and he couldn't deny she was right. He'd been fucking terrified. (As well as drunk on victory and half-mad with pain. It _was_ a wonder he remembered anything.).

Her eyes dropped. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just hated you – and I was so jealous.”

It made sense right up to the last word. He blinked. “Jealous?”

She was stroking the burns absently. “Most people freeze up when they get frightened,” she explained. “They go helpless right when it matters. But you were… you _fought._ Brilliantly. I thought it wasn’t fair that the gods would make _you_ so brave while everyone else…” She shrugged.

He didn’t really know what to say to that. He could try to set her straight, explain the difference between bravery and desperation, but before he found words she laughed and went on. “I _hated_ you,” she said again, smiling a little. “You deserved to die and you got away with it.”

 _The red god owed me one._ But he wasn’t about to mouth off to her while she was holding that knife, so he kept quiet.

She bent and kissed the spot. “That’s really how we got together though, so I guess it worked out in the end. This one’s all right as it is,” she decided. “Let’s see what else.”

What _else_? Gods be good, he needed to be drunk. He couldn't remember ever being cut up like this without the rush of battle to eclipse the pain or wine to dull it, and it was awful.

 _Could be worse though,_ he told himself. _The Bastard c_ _ould’ve taught her her way around a flaying knife._

She sat down in front of him, scooped his foot up into her lap and touched his calf. “What's this one?”

“Let me see.” He leaned forward, waited til the world stopped rocking, and took a look. “Looks like an arrow, but... I don't know.”

“You do now.” She nicked him and moved on to check the other leg. When she went above the knee he suddenly wished he wasn't naked; she was touching him awfully close to where it mattered and if he stirred from this he would be the strangest freak of all.

“This one could have killed you,” she said severely, rubbing a bad scar on the inside of his thigh.

“Aye, but leave it alone – that one's on me.”

She didn’t make him elaborate. “Fine. Then stand up, I need to do the back. Shouldn’t take long though – you haven't been stabbed in the arse or anything, have you?”

“No...” But she wasn't going to like the one where he'd almost been hamstrung. He winced his way to his feet, slowly, bracing a hand on her head to keep steady. He hurt _everywhere._ The freshest cuts burned, and the others throbbed and buzzed steadily.

“Almost done,” she said. “You all right?”

He nodded. Turned to let her keep going.

* * *

When she was finished with him the Hound was _covered_ in blood. Some places she'd just barely slit through the skin, but others were true cuts that were truly bleeding, and blood had dripped and smeared over him everywhere.

“Here – sit down,” she said, and guided him back onto his stool. He gasped and grunted as his weight settled, but she didn't care. “Should have thought of that before you let some dead man chop you in the back of the leg,” she lectured. Then she touched his cold, sweaty shoulder. “Just relax – I'll clean you up now.”

She turned to grab ointment and a cloth – and a needle; some of the cuts needed it – but he stopped her. “Girl.”

“Hm?”

“You missed one.”

She frowned. She couldn't have; she'd checked him over every inch.

“The bad one,” he prompted. Expectant, as if reminding her of something she should know by herself.

She shook her head. When she looked at him for clues, he gave a dark chuckle and blew his hair off his face.

Off the burned side of his face. “ _Oh._ ” She came closer. That _was_ a scar, she supposed, though she didn't really think of it that way. He'd had it ever since she'd known him, and she'd long since stopped paying attention.

“Sorry, I forgot,” she said.

He laughed – harsh. “You forgot.”

“I mean I forgot it's scars. To me that's just how you look.” He’d been easygoing throughout the whole ordeal, but now he’d become nasty and dangerous. _All because of his stupid face? Ridiculous._ She stepped one foot in between his and sat down, straddling him on the thigh with no cuts. “It's not pretty,” she said, “But neither is all this _hair,_ and I've got used to it.” She dragged her nails over his chest and plucked at it. “Besides, you don't want me to cut your face.”

He looked at her a while. “Suppose not,” he said at last – sounding less angry, and more drained. “It's bad enough already.”

“Oh, stop. Who cares.” She might not want to cut him there but she could still lay claim somehow. “Hold still.”

He held still, held his breath even, as she leaned in.   She knew he couldn't feel touch on the burns themselves, so she kissed him right where they ended, on his cheek, then kissed up to his forehead and along his hair line. When she got to his temple he gasped and shuddered violently. She giggled. “You all right?”

“Aye. Just-... not used to that.” He was still tense, but not in a dangerous way anymore. Now he was breathless, and gripping his seat with both hands as if he badly wanted to move around.

Not surprising – he never let people touch him there at all, much less purposely tease. She kissed her way down to his burned ear and then, on a sudden whim, stuck her tongue into it.

“ _AH!_ ” he jerked away, the way normal people did when you _hurt_ them.

She grabbed his chin. “Don't be such a girl. Hold still.”

“But-. Seven hells.” He was definitely breathing hard. He squirmed in his seat, so for a moment she thought she must be sitting on him wrong. She looked down to make sure there weren't any cuts getting rubbed on or something... and saw his cock twitch. Not all the way hard yet, but definitely getting there. _Oh._

She bit her lip and didn't let herself giggle. “I said hold still. I'm not done with you yet,” she said. She kissed down past his jaw to his neck, edging the burns, sucking gently where she knew he liked it.

Eventually she got all the way back up to his mouth. “There,” she said against his lips, and flicked with her tongue. He put his arms around her.

They stayed like that a while, pressed tight to each other and kissing. She could tell his blood was up now. She wanted to be in charge today and wasn’t about to let him start fucking away in that fierce way he had, but he certainly deserved _something_ nice _._

Hm. She knew that what he liked best next to fucking was mouthwork; she'd seen him buy it off girls when he was too hurt or tired to fuck. She'd never done it for him herself though; ever since the time some soldiers _made_ her she’d maintained it was disgusting. It had left her with a foul taste on her tongue and a rage that even the Hound was impressed with, and since then she’d never offered, and he’d never asked.

But today he'd let her open up all _his_ old scars again, hadn't he, and fair was fair. She pushed away from him and went down to her knees. He sucked his breath in when she put her hands between his legs... and when she bent down for an experimental lick, he made a noise.

She didn’t think it was disgusting, but she did want to laugh – he'd sat firm through all the cutting, but _this_ he couldn't take in silence? “Would you like me to use my mouth?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence. (She'd never really gotten the hang of bedroom eyes, but Nym had assured her that on most men these worked just as well.).

“Gods, girl, you know I would,” he said hoarsely. He brought his hand to her jaw. “But I always thought you...”

It was really sweet that he would hesitate. It made her want to squeeze him hard and _kill_ anyone who tried to mark him again. _I wonder if I'm in love_.

“Not anymore,” she said. She didn't want anyone grabbing her head and choking her, though, so she ordered: “Put your hands behind your back and keep them there.”

“How about you put the damn knife away first,” he growled, but did as he was told. Then he let out a slow breath, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. She smirked at his bared throat. _He's definitely in love too_.

* * *

**The End.**

**Ok, I think I am done writing this pairing. You guys have been great and I hope you've enjoyed!**

 

 

 


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